


small histories of the non-historic

by sassy_ninja



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Everyone is Dead, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, One Big Happy Family, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:28:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_ninja/pseuds/sassy_ninja
Summary: A series of unconnected moments on the barricades where Les Amis remind each other and are reminded that even until the bloody end they are not alone. Somehow, with joy in their hearts and laughter on their lips, they'll fight on for a few hours yet and together they won't stop fighting until there's nothing left to give.
Relationships: Bahorel & Feuilly (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle & Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Joly (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac & Jean Prouvaire, Courfeyrac & Joly (Les Misérables), Enjolras & Feuilly (Les Misérables), Feuilly & Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	small histories of the non-historic

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is what comes out of my brain now that uni has started up again and I was rlly mad that Victor Hugo killed most of les amis in 1 sentence so this is uuuh idk honestly I don't think this makes it better but yeah...... I'm sad now so everyone can join me......
> 
> there's brief mentions of blood/death throughout but the only part where it's more graphic is the last scene and the paragraph starting with 'There's a choked gargling sound' so pls skip that is gore is a no go for you!

Bossuet is somewhat of a lapsed Christian, he never particularly enjoyed going to church even as a child when he would obediently follow his mother in every Sunday. Here in Paris though he’s been surrounded by heathens like he’d never seen before, his grandmother would smack him upside the head if she ever heard the things they say.

He himself has really never given it too much thought, he’s a simple man and therefore has avoided philosophy almost as much as he’s avoided his law lectures. There are certain things you can figure out, like how much wine you can drink before you’re sick or how long you can not pay rent for until your landlord gives you the boot, and there are certain other things that will never truly be clear. Things like God and what happens after death, he’s always just thought that he would find out when it comes.

Now though as he’s staring what feels like it might be death in the face he’s not too certain anymore. There’s something trembling in his soul like a bird in a cage and his luck has been so bad his entire life, maybe now really isn’t the time to hedge his bets.

He starts praying, a little uncertainly and fumbling his words, but his damn hands keep shaking so much that he stops, flushing in embarrassment. Then someone grabs his hands with their own, clasping them together and he looks up with surprise to see Jehan settle to his knees in-front of him.

“Here, we can pray together,” he says, simply and closes his eyes. His hands still tremble, but somehow Bossuet feels better for it when he can feel how Jehan is shaking as well. With their hands clasped together, meeting what’s beyond perhaps doesn’t seem so frightening anymore. 

* * *

“Enjolras,” someone shouts and he spins around to see who is calling his name. Through the dust and the chaos of the barricade, Courfeyrac comes bounding towards him with a smile still on his face.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks with a frown, Courfeyrac just shakes his head cheerily.

“No, just here to take this – ah wait, there’s just something on your face – here let me get it for you,” he licks his thumb and brushes it across Enjolras’ cheek like he’s a child and then smiles triumphantly, “there, all better now.”

It’s blood he realises distantly, but before he can formulate a proper reply Courfeyrac has already grabbed the cartridges he needed and dashed away once more. He stares after him for another moment, seeing him stop to slap someone on the back and jostle somebody else in laughter before he disappears from sight.

Enjolras laughs, breathless and disbelieving before there’s another shout and he’s distracted once more, reaching for his gun and climbing back up the barricade.

* * *

Feuilly doesn’t believe it, what he’s seeing amongst the dirt and ash. Bahorel is an immovable force, an eternal breathing, rushing, roaring ocean whose entire purpose sometimes seemed to rush as far onto land as he can get before he is dragged all the way back. He is violence, he is blood, he is a mouth made to aggravate and never to sooth. He is not still, he is not faltering, he is not lying on the ground, fancy waistcoat stained with blood and eyes staring vacantly into the sky.

Something crumples inside of him like a fire doused too quickly, he sinks to the ground and presses one hand onto Bahorel’s chest. It’s still warm as if any moment he’ll whip his head up with a smirk and wrestle Feuilly into the dirt. He dares him to do it, wills it even. Anything, anything at all, but he doesn’t move.

“Feuilly? Are you alright?” he blinks, feeling Enjolras lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He opens his mouth to speak but what use would that be? Could he explain himself? The chasm that has opened inside of him? No, there are no words that could describe the feeling of seeing a mountain crumbled to dust before your eyes. All he does instead is shake his head, fist clenching loosely in Bahorel’s silk waistcoat.

“There are still pathways to leave this place, the National Guard hasn’t quite closed us in yet. If one were to slip away through them as no doubt some men already have, no one would blame you,” Enjolras says slowly, consideringly. He squeezes Feuilly’s shoulder one last time before he walks away, back into the gunfire and the smoke.

It takes him a moment to understand what Enjolras has offered him and for a fleeting second he considers it, but then he looks at Bahorel’s blood that’s stained his hand and he laughs.

“God,” he says, shaking his head as he staggers back to his feet, “and leave this revolutionary business to schoolboys? Ha, this has always been a working man’s job.”

As he runs back towards the barricade Enjolras catches his eye and gives him a grim nod, like there’s something he understands better about Feuilly now. He nods back, taking a gun from a fallen comrade and clambering upwards. In his ears he can hear Bahorel’s booming laugh ringing as he aims and fires, hitting his mark and a soldier falls down, dead.

* * *

Joly has always gotten cold easily, that is something anyone in Les Amis could have told you. He always has a spare scarf (or two) and wears his winter coats well into the warmth of spring, but today of all days every spare scrap of fabric has been used for makeshift tourniquets, bandages and slings. Most of them made by Combeferre’s own hands.

It leaves Joly in only his shirt, waistcoat and breeches as he settles down to sleep. Even though the summer in Paris is pleasant there’s still a chill in the night and he curls around himself to try keep warm on the bare paving stones like a kitten might. Something stirs in Combeferre’s heart when he sees him shiver and try press even further into himself.

“Here, lean against me,” he says quietly, already scooping Joly’s head up so that he’s nestled against Combeferre’s chest with his arm wrapped around his shoulders.

Joly blinks up at him for a moment, sleepy and confused before he smiles, grateful. Together they’re both warmer for it and together they fall asleep for the last time.

* * *

Feuilly has always had difficultly falling asleep ever since he was child, his mother used to tell him he would think too much and then pinch his cheek a little too hard to be completely affectionate. Now though he thinks such a task would be almost impossible, even as he sees all his other brothers asleep up on the cobblestones.

He offers to take watch, but Enjolras just shakes his head and tells him to get some rest, that Courfeyrac is more than capable of keeping watch by himself. It’s not that Feuilly distrusts Courfeyrac, but he’s been known to be more than a little unreliable at times. He sighs with discomfort even as he sees him sitting atop the barricade with his eyes trained carefully on the dark street beyond.

More than that though Feuilly just has a difficult time trusting, everything that he’s done he’s always done by himself, that’s just been his way. He’s scratched out what little he has with his own bare hands, but these students, these boys who have hearts bigger than their sense, it makes him reconsider things somewhat.

“Feuilly! Don’t sit there looking so dour, drink man, drink,” Grantaire shouts as he staggers over to where Feuilly is resting, “oh don’t give me that look – who do you think you are?” he scoffs when Feuilly shakes his head.

“I don’t think it’s particularly wise to drink at a time like this,” he says, but Grantaire just laughs, slapping his thigh.

“There is never a time where a bottle of wine doesn’t make things better, just a sip, come on,” he pushes the bottle to Feuilly’s lips and holds it there until he begrudgingly takes a large gulp and then another and another.

When he’s done all Grantaire does is laugh, ruffling his hair as he staggers away to find his next victim and Feuilly shakes his head again. He does feel more relaxed though and leans his head back against the uneven brick to look up at the sky.

It’s cloudy tonight as if God has decided to look away from what will happen here, but then he catches sight of Courfeyrac keeping guard, silent and still on the barricade. He closes his eyes with a grumbling sigh, there are things other than God keeping watch over them tonight and perhaps they will be better off for it.

* * *

“Courfeyrac?” he blinks as he hears Jehan’s voice call out in the darkness and when he cranes his head there he is, standing uncertain at the base of the barricade.

“Are you alright?” he asks with a frown as Jehan makes his way up, grabbing his arm and pulling him the last bit when he slips in the almost darkness.

In the flickering light of the lantern, he looks so young, almost childlike, so much so that it makes Courfeyrac’s stomach lurch with the reminder of just how young he really is. He wants to take him away from this place of violence and death, but instead he wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in to sit closer.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says quietly, resting his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, “I’m not afraid of dying, but I still can’t sleep.”

“Well, I’m certainly afraid of dying,” he says with a huff of laughter, stroking Jehan’s hair until he smiles tentatively, “but let us make a deal, if you can't sleep then you can stay with me and we can keep watch together.”

Jehan just nods and curls even closer into him like a kitten or a young child. Courfeyarc starts singing softly, one of the lullabies he would use on his stubborn younger siblings when they refused to go to bed and Jehan falls asleep before he can even finish the second song.

He looks up at the cloudy night sky and closes his eyes for a moment in prayer, whatever gods are out there, whoever is looking down on them please, please keep Jehan safe. When he opens his eyes again there’s the darkness of the street staring back at him, but Jehan’s soft breathing keeps the looming quiet at bay. In the distance the dawn is barely breaking.

* * *

He’s a man that Combeferre never knew well, he’d seen him at meetings of course, known that he was a journalist, one with good connections to a few printmakers at that and according to Courfeyrac he was also an infamous cheat at cards. They’d likely spoken a few times, perhaps debated once or twice, but those memories elude Combeferre now as he watches him writhe on the ground, contorted in pain. Gunshot wounds, two to the abdomen and one to the leg. He won’t survive the hour, not even if they could rush him to a hospital this very minute.

“Please,” he croaks out, grabbing desperately onto Combeferre’s arm as he goes to stand, “please just end it, I’m begging you.”

He blanches at the thought, he’s a doctor, someone who heals the sick and wounded not – he can’t even bare to think it, but this man looks at him with wide terrified eyes. What kind of doctor would he be if he were to leave his patient to suffer? He’s already shot soldiers from the National Guard, is this really that different?

He pulls the pistol from his side and stands, pointing it towards him. He just looks back at him with terrified relief, but Combeferre’s finger slips as he tries to pull the trigger.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters, trying to stop himself from shaking, but the gun almost rattles itself out of his hands, “god I–”

“Let me – you don’t need to have this blood on your hands, Combeferre,” Enjolras appears beside him like a ghost and takes the gun easily from him. He turns away before Enjolras fires, wincing at the sound anyways and not looking back until they’ve already taken the body away.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, still shaken. Enjolras presses their foreheads together for a moment before he goes again and there is already another dying man lying there for Combeferre to try and save. It does not feel like it will ever end.

* * *

This is the end, this is already beyond the end. Joly lays on the ground with too many bullets embedded in his chest and he laughs because all of his worrying over colds and magnetic alignments was for nothing after all. It’s so quiet now where all the gunshots were once ringing out, just some brothers lying splayed out in the dirt and waiting for death to come claim them one by one.

There’s a choked gurgling sound and he manages to tilt his head upwards, Courfeyrac lies just inches away from him with his chest heaving and bloody foam bubbling at the hole in his throat. His face contorts with pain and through his blurring vision Joly can see the tears making streaks down his face as he tries desperately to breathe.

He tries to move his hand to comfort him, but he can’t. His body is so weak already, as it always has been through his whole life and now in the throughs of death, he can barely even move his arm a few inches.

Courfeyrac jerks again, making a distressed groaning sound like a dying animal. Joly reaches out desperately, a soft pained huff falling from his lips every time he manages to move until finally, finally, his hand brushes the back of Courfeyrac’s and their fingers barely interlock. He squeezes as tight as he can, anything to show that he’s there, that even in the end they’re not alone.

At the touch Courfeyrac’s face seems to relax, his mouth falling into something almost like his usual smile and as he lets out his next breath it almost seems like a laugh. He squeezes back just ever so slightly, and they lie there together until his body slowly stills and starts turning cold.

All Joly can do now is breathe, a slow inhale, slow exhale, but he’s not afraid. Never in his life has he felt less alone than right now, dying on the ground amongst his brothers. He doesn’t regret it, not a single moment. As he drifts off, he can hear what almost sounds like laughter, what almost sounds like song.

And then all that remains on the barricades is silence.

**Author's Note:**

> aah I'm sorry.... at least now we can be sad together.... anyways if you enjoyed (or something like that) then leave a comment and a kudo!! also come shout at me on my [twitter!](https://twitter.com/lesbiancourf)


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